


The Room

by SilenceoftheSolitude



Series: Finding Closure [3]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode Tag, Episode: s08e18 Threads, F/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilenceoftheSolitude/pseuds/SilenceoftheSolitude
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Right now, however, it doesn’t scare her anymore. She’s aware of what she’s feeling and she’s not scared. She feels she’s not alone anymore; she’s carrying small bits of those she loved with her, and that strengthens her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Room

**Author's Note:**

> Last in the 'Finding Closure' series. Follows directly the events in 'Found and Lost'.
> 
> Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. No copyright infringment intended.

She is alone with herself in the huge confines of the church. She’s not sure why exactly she’s here, or maybe she is. But she’s not sure she wants to remember. To relieve every instant – no matter how much she can assure everyone she has come to grips with it – it’s painful. It will always be painful.

Her eyes are fixed on the crucifix behind the altar: a symbol of suffering, of sacrifice, but most of all of immense love. She’s not sure she can live up to that. What she’s sure of is that she has broken more than one commandment and right now, somehow, it matters more than she ever thought possible. It feels like she’s letting everyone down.

Light comes in from the glass windows, their many colors casting shades of incredible beauty all over the church’s marble pavement. It’s a sight for sore eyes, but hers can’t quite stop fixing the slightly bent figure that is Christ. The sculptor made an incredible work of representing the pain on its face, but there’s something else in His eyes. And it’s stupid, really, because it’s not even real, but those eyes, in the deafening silence of her surrounding, they look a lot like her dad’s just before he died.

They’re telling her to fight. Without weapons. She has to embrace a power that goes beyond that obtained with the sheer force of a P90. For once she only has to rely on a power that cannot be grasped, a power that many men forget even exist. The power of faith and will. It gets to her. She feels it in her body because, for the first time in quite a while, she’s listening. And in the overwhelming silence she feels her father’s voice, telling her that she doesn’t have to settle for second best, that she has it in her to fulfill her dreams, to obtain what she desires from life.

However much cliché that seems, she starts believing. And, maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

The light tap of footsteps on the marble alerts her that she’s not alone anymore.

 

* * *

 

He got through an open door, just a couple of meters from the main portal. It’s an oppressing sensation, no matter how tall and lengthy the building is. He walks to the center corridor and start pacing it. He tries to be as quiet as possible. He has this feeling of non-belonging yet, somehow, he knows that this god, the only real God in his books accepts him no matter what. He doesn’t seem to care about the darkness of his soul, the blood red stains that will never wash away from his hands. Or maybe it’s because He cares that his presence in the church feels just right.

His eyes catch sight of a lone figure. She’s sitting in one of the first rows, her shoulders slumped, and she looks defeated. Like there’s nothing left to fight for, but he’s not sure that’s what is going on in her mind. Because he has never seen her in a church before.

He stops as soon as his eyes rest in her hairs. She probably doesn’t realize it – she never seems to notice how breathtakingly beautiful she is – but the colors coming from the painted glass windows are making her hairs shine of a painfully unnatural shade. And the pain comes from the fact that her untainted beauty isn’t his to appreciate.

It feels right however, watching her, claiming her as his in the house of God, and that scares him.

For a second she looks up, and he can see a glimpse of the light skin of her cheeks. That’s when he notices it, the black shade, a shadow line on her cheek: the symbol of her suffering. A suffering he couldn’t prevent, because he is late, he’s always late. And he knows it’s not his fault, because he had no idea of where she had gone to, where she had disappeared. And he certainly didn’t know that of all the people outside, there was only one who knew where she would be.

It had cost him a lot to ask to the people that loved her most, but to go to her brother, a man he didn’t even know, had been his last resource. That stupid plan B that always turned out to be the only one to work effectively had worked once more. Her brother hadn’t asked any question, he had only watched the church. It was more than enough for him to understand.

 

* * *

 

The footsteps could have belonged to virtually anyone and she knew that her brother would be the only one knowing where she would go to hide at such a moment, because he was the only one who had been with her the first time around. But as each step echoed through the nearly empty church there was no doubt in her mind as to whom those feet belonged to. And as he stops she starts wondering whether he will go away if she ignores him.

She doesn’t want him to go away, but she feels the need to test his will. And once again her father’s words echoes in her head. Stronger than anything else she has ever experienced. They pound in her head like a hammer on a nail, just doing their job. Because that’s what her father had been doing his whole life: his job. And he’d done it in a way that nobody else would have been able to. In a way that nobody else would ever be able to mimic, no matter how hard they would try.

She suppresses a sigh, but inside she can hear herself as she frees her body of it. She’s slowly becoming more and more aware of what she feels. It’s strange really; her actions had never felt her own up until now. It’s as if her whole life she had been an outsider looking in. There were rare moments in which awareness took over and she got scared, terribly so. Because she was aware that the control was hers. Her decision, her chance to change her own destiny. Right now, however, it doesn’t scare her anymore. She’s aware of what she’s feeling and she’s not scared. She feels she’s not alone anymore; she’s carrying small bits of those she loved with her, and that strengthens her.

When she lifts her head slightly it’s to read the words that are engraved above the crucifix, just under the fresco. It gives her hope and enough resolve to turn around. So she does, and she meets his eyes. They are just as she knows them to be: soft and warming, scared and caring, but also strong and ready to be filled. Because there’s a void in there, the same void that she has come to realize to be in his soul. And she knows he’s waiting for her to fill it as well as the fact that she has deepened it in the last year or so.

She invites him with her eyes, it’s all she can do for now. And when she sees his feet move again she turns back to Him, to His wood cross.

 

* * *

 

 

He resumes walking, slowly, carefully. He has started fidgeting with his cover. He’s turning it in his hands rather childishly. He does that often when he’s nervous, and he gets often nervous around her, especially when they’re both in their blues. He remembers the first time he met her father they were all wearing their dress blue. He had thought Jacob didn’t like him. He was probably right. And he probably knew that had a lot to do with the way he was acting around his daughter, the way he looked at her. In his heart he couldn’t possibly understand how anyone else hadn’t seen it earlier. Because it was plain obvious to him, he had been in awe of her for much longer than he realized. Whatever she did, it would amaze him, because it was always unexpected.

There’s enough space between her and the end of the bench that he can sits by her side without walking in front of her. And he could probably put some inches between them, but there’s no doubt in his heart that the contact of their shoulders feels just equally right. So he sits there, his arm still, firm alongside hers.

He feels her shake; he knows that’s probably due to the contact between them, but he can’t suppress the urge to feel more of her under his touch, to know that she’s alive, that they’re both alive, and the only way to do that is if he is allowed to touch her. That’s why he decides to strike her cheek with his rough calloused thumb.

He doesn’t want to touch her with his index, because it’s the one finger in his hand that he’s most afraid of. It’s irrational since he is the one that killed far too many people, and not his index, but the ‘trigger’ finger is proof of that and today, he doesn’t want to taint her skin with any more death, he knows she can’t bear it. For one day he wants her to be free of any sin, because in their line of work that happens too rarely.

 

* * *

 

 

She feels his thumb on her cheek and all she can do is lean in his touch. She knows it’s wrong in too many ways to feel right, and it shows in the reaction her body displays. She starts quivering, and she’s afraid he’ll push away. He might be as scared of this as she is. It scares her because he’s right there, and it doesn’t look like he’s going away. It scares her because there’s no one else around and yet she knows they’re not alone. It scares her because no matter how much she tries to convince herself of how wrong this feels, she knows that it also feels tremendously right. And most of all, it scares her because in his steady gaze she sees the same realization, and he’s not pushing away.

His arm moves around her slumped form and although she doesn’t see it – too engrossed in his eyes – she feels it. That’s all it takes for her to shudder and shatter, to break under him. And it’s no longer a question of what is right and wrong, it’s just what _is_ that matters. And it can’t be helped. He is there, by her side, shielding her from the waves of pain and fear that no one else can quell.

She’s broken, a thousand pieces of glass spread all over the slippery floor, but with his touch he seems to be able to piece her back together. Bit by bit, he seems to be patiently building her up again. He could start from anywhere, but he chooses to start with what she needs the most: her armor. He’s not actually piecing her back together, she knows she’s not really broken and it’s all in her head. Yet he’s doing it in there, and it is enough.

“Thanks.” It’s a murmur that escapes her mouth involuntarily as she turns her head towards the altar once again, but she doesn’t regret it. She knows that to him it probably feels like a balsam, and she knows he needs it. He knows that too, but what she’s sure he doesn’t know is that he deserves it.

 

* * *

 

 

He feels her reacting badly at his touch every time, he knows he’s hurting her, but he also knows that neither of them can do without it. They need to feel each other right now and there’s nowhere else he’d rather be feeling her, so he keeps pushing for more, and she doesn’t retreat. It scares him that she’s actually ready to suffer to feel him near her; it scares him the first time. When she leans into his finger only to start quivering he’s pretty sure he can’t put her through more, but then his arm seems to have a mind of its own; it encircles her, her whole body gets pressed on his chest.

All he can think of is that he feels. And he knows she does too, because she seems to shatter to pieces under his touch. And for the life of him, for the life of _her_ , he can’t push away. Because it’s too much, that simple contact means more than any other thing. He realizes that what he’s been fighting for is her. Maybe it wasn’t in the beginning, but it is now and he doesn’t want to give that up. If he did it would be like giving her up; he won’t do it. It’s a promise to her.

Then she turns, slowly, carefully, her eyes are suddenly looking elsewhere and he feels a bit lost. But her whisper hits home. She doesn’t want him to leave her alone.

He nearly misses it, but he catches it. It’s probably an involuntary reflex, something she didn’t want to say but said anyway. He can think of a million reasons why that single whispered word has little to no meaning, but none of them count. She said it, and he heard it. And there’s only one way to acknowledge it, “always.”

 

* * *

 

 

To many it’s a word, to them it’s a promise. A promise for forever, made in a room that just can’t be closed, made in the house of He who never closes His doors and never closes His eyes, made in the one place on Earth where nothing is overseen, where nothing has little meaning. Just like their contact. It means everything to them and right now, everything is what they need. If only for an instant.


End file.
